Blind
by masterofall14
Summary: 'So a genius and blind. John believed he may have just had something happen in his civilian life.' Alternate meeting between John and Sherlock. Belongs to the BBC. Johnlock if you squint. Please read and review. Let me know how I can improve. I hope I was loyal enough to the characters.


**This was hard, but made me think !**

When John followed Mike to Barts in the hope of finding a flatmate who'd accept his PTSD and psychosmatic limp, it was as if the stars had aligned for this very moment.

His eyes fell on Sherlock Holmes.

The man was standing next to a seated woman, who was bent over a microscope. He was leaning on the table, using his hips and hands to maintain his balance and was staring dead ahead, listening to the girl's quiet murmurs, as she was obviously relaying everything she could see. He wasn't physically taking notes and his gaze seemed a little distant. His head turned slightly as they entered the room, John pointing out how different it was. The girl lifted her head and gave a small smile, slight confusion flitted across her face at John's appearence, but she didn't dwell on it.

The man greeted them with a deep baritone voice. "Mike."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock. Somehow the name suited him completely. Complimented him. His face had strange angles, which made him all the more appealing to look at, John thought. Darl curls and skinny frame; he was obviously someone who had girls throwing themselves at him from left and right.

Sherlock turned his head back in John's direction. "Who's your friend?" He asked, all the while staring over John's shoulder at the wall. Typical. The guy wouldn't even look at him.

Clearing his throat, John shuffled his feet and leant on his stick. He was Captain John Watson. He wouldn't let himself be intimidated by other people's behavior towards him.

Squaring his shoulders, he raised his glanced from where it had dropped to the floor and glared into Sherlock's eyes.

Mike beat him to it. "This is John Watson, we..."

The other man cut him off. "You knew each other at university. You brought him here because I told you that I was looking for a flatmate. You were gone for two hours, so you bumped into each other, had coffee going by the smell of your breath. You weren't brilliantly close, because you, Mike, were not eager to tell me his name; so in the same class at University, not overly friendly. That tells me you most likely sat on a bench outside; after all discussing things over a table with someone you barely recognize would result in awkwardness for both of you." A sly smile passed over his face. "Am I right?"

John could only gape. The speed at which Sherlock spoke was enough to make anyone double take, but the confidence with which he conversed and the content... How could he possibly know all of this?

Glancing at Mike, he was surprised to see the other man smiling smugly at him, as if he had known Sherlock would astound him this way. It was obviously an everyday occurrence, since everyone else was calm.

He cleared his throat for a second time in an attempt to regain some leverage on this battlefield of wits with this smart man. Sherlock's stare unnerved him. He never looked at anyone directly, he merely...

John wanted to kick himself for being so slow. Heck, he would have there and then, if it hadn't been for the limp. He was a doctor. How could he not have noticed. He was a _doctor._ He had treated people suffering from facial injuries and blindness in Afghanistan.

His suspicions were confirmed, when the man in question picked up a box containing syringes and brushed his fingers over the braille for confirmation.

So a genius and blind. John believed he may have just had something happen in his civilian life.

The ensuing silence lasted for a moment before Sherlock suddenly requested Mike's phone. When the latter denied having it on him, John hurried to offer fis own. He had a burning desire to reach this amazing man's expectations. As he tugged it out of his jacket pocket, Sherlock walked over to him. Reaching out rather hesitantly, he placed his hand on John's shoulder, right above the bullet wound and squeezed. John couldn't help hissing at the nip of pain that ran down his left arm.

Sherlock withdrew his hand, looking only slightly apologetic. "Bullet wound," he stated rather than questionned. John felt unnerved._ How could he tell?_

"Do you mind?" Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his reverie. Muttering an apology, he held out his phone, when Sherlock placed large, elegent hands on either side of his face. He flinched once more at the contact.

Gentle fingers ran across the lines in his face, brushed every inch as though reading him like braille, before humming as though satisfied with what he had learned.

"Lots of lines from trauma and sun, so late thirties or early forties. Hair cut regularly, military, most likely grey or getting there. Your limp is psychosmatic because you're leaning the wrong way, as if you're not always aware of it. This I can tell from the position of your shoulders and this usually occurs in people readjusting to life. So, you're a soldier and from your age and behavior I would say

captain. Bullet wound, tremours in the left hand and yet..." He clasped John's clammy hand between his own. "It's gone now. Your psychiatrist is wrong. You need danger. Fire her."

Plucking the phone from John's immobile hand, he felt the writing engraved on the cover. Not having finished impressing the newcomer, he didn't notice how quiet the room had become

"Clara left your brother Harry, because he kept the phone before passing it onto you, you're not close, but he's worried, wants you to stay in touch. Scratches on the charging end, indicate he's an alcoholic. Never see a drunk's phone without them, and they most certainly didn't come from you." His phone was thrust back into his hands. "An army doctor." The unseeing eyes were confident. "I can only assume that I'm right."

John couldn't answer.

Sherlock pulled on his coat, picked up the riding crop lying on the table. "Thank you for getting this Molly." he said, speaking to the only woman in the room. "Are you coming John?"

The smaller man blinked rapidly, to hide his confusion. Not that it worked. "I'm sorry, where are we going?"

"To my flat. My lodger will love you, don't worry."

"We've only just met. I don't even know your full name." John replied incredulously.

"Sherlock Holmes. We've already established that I know everything about you. And you will follow me. You can't help yourself." He left the room with grace and ease.

John shook his head, took one look at Mike's smug face and made his decision. Cursing his fascination under his breath, he darted after Sherlock.

888

A ten minute cab ride and an explanation that Harry was short for Harriet later, John found himself in a stuffy, messy apartment, without a visible seating area in sight. Glaring at the naïve Sherlock, he cleared a space on the plushy looking armchair and sat himself down, streching his sore leg and confirming that yes, the armchair was "plushy".

Sherlock cleared a few spaces, knowing where everything was amongst this disaster of a lounge. John did not wish to impose by trying to help him, for he felt it would not be appreciated. So when Sherlock froze mid-motion and darted towards the window, leaping over stacks of books with a manical grin on his face, John's heart thudded in excitement.

Mrs. Hudson rushed in at that moment, demanding to know what Sherlock had done this time round to upset Scotland Yard once more. She was gently shoved aside by an officer, who resembled John with his keen eyes and greying hair. He took no notice of the smaller man as he requested Sherlock's attention. Not that the man hadn't been quivering in delight for the past minute.

"There's been another murder." The glee in his voice sent an unnoticable shiver down John's spine. "But this one's different or you wouldn't have come. What's happened?"

"There's a suicide note. I'd appreciate it if you could come down to take a look."

"I'll follow you in a taxi." The detective nodded gratefully, probably more to himself and left. Informing his lodger that he was skipping tea, he departed without a second thought for John.

The latter sat back and convinced the landlady for some tea and biscuits, enjoying their playful banter.

Years in the army had taught him to be wary and to know when he was being watched. It was this gut instinct that made him turn his head towards the doorway, to find Sherlock facing him, his eyes set on John's waist.

"You're a doctor." he said, adjusting his scarf around his neck. "An army doctor."

The mere mention of his military career had John standing and drawing himself to full height, mainly out of nervousness and self-defense.

"You've seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." He stalked towards John as he spoke, as one would stalk their prey.

"Yes, yes, far too much." He tried pushing back the memories, not wanting more memories that night. But he couldn't deny that the more he remembered, the more lonely and _homesick_ he felt. This made no sense at all. Or at least, that's what he tried to convince himself. "Enough for a lifetime."

By now, he and Sherlock were inches apart and he swallowed at their sudden closeness. And then Sherlock's eyes met his own, taking his breath away, reading his secrets and taking a peek at his soul. The blue was intense and John was almost convinced Sherlock could see him.

Sherlock leant in closer, lowering his voice as though sharing forbidden knowledge. John was internly shivering in excitement.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, _god _yes."

888

Later that evening, after having been left behind at a crime scene and kidnapped by some guy believing he had Sherlock's best interests in mind and who'd successfully deduced him as pompously as the man he'd met earlier that afternoon, John found himself back in the flat, discussing Consulting detectives with Sherlock, who was high on nicotine.

"Not to seem rude, but asides from the sergeants at the crime scene..." He noted Sherlock's raised eyebrows. "Well okay, only Lestrade seemed to accept that your facts were true."

"Your point?" As it turned out, Sherlock did not like having meaningless conversations, John learned quickly.

"Look, I know how ignorant people can be and I'm surprised that they trust you even though you're blind." Get to the point. Sherlock hates unfinished sentences.

"I trained for years, John, years to perfect my hearing, all my senses and my knowledge of every route in London. I only started working with Lestrade two years ago. It's not always easy, because they're all a bunch of idiots. My blindness means that I miss a lot of important details, and when no one is willing to help me, then of course they never catch their killer . Bunch of morons the lot of them. Thank god you were there tonight, or I never would have realized that the killer had taken her suitcase. Has he replied yet?"

John glanced at the phone nervously. "Can't believe I sent a text to a serial killer."

A sigh. "Believe it, John."

John re-ran the coversation through his head. "So when you said that you understood the killer had taken her suitcase, was that your way of thanking me?"

"What? Of course not, it was me, all me." John discovered that Sherlock isn't a brilliant liar. Especially when it concerns his ego. So he smiled, satisfied to himself, glad no one could see it.

"Stop smiling, John. Satisfaction doesn't suit you."

"What? How..."

"You breathe heavily through your nose when you're happy. It's incredibly irritating."

Sherlock pondered the case and John pouted. It was a few minutes before the detective spoke up again. "Yes."

"Hmm?"

"That was my way of thanking you. And don't think it will happen again."

"So, does that mean you need me for more cases?"

Sherlock growled, infuriated. "Only if you want to stay. Which we'll find out in about an hour's time."

Shaking his head, John smiled. Perhaps he could live with this madman. He still needed to be sure though.

Sherlock sat up. "Hungry? I know a great restaurant. You'll have to watch out for any suspicious activities. You need to be my eyes, so we can catch this killer."

Smirking again and ignoring Sherlock's bemused face, they left the flat together. Sherlock needed him, and vice versa. He would start his blog tomorrow.

**The End**

**Please review! Thanks for reading.**


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